Love Letter

Nay, She is no sepulchre in Whose bed

I shall, at length, die quietly: Instead,

with verdant eyes full, rife, replete with Life,

I’ll lay to rest this back I’ve bruised and bled

in worship of—in Her Name, my Love, Light,

all Alchemy for purity in blight.

‘Woe! burst thy cage asunder! flee! take flight!

from this prison of perfidious pride

whose walls are Time, whose gates are Birth & Death.

My vast, pastoral Paradise is thine

if thou might only sacrifice all breath,

all blood for Me.’ This mortal frame I shed

for Thee, Great Mother. Hear that I, bereft

of Thee, have tried; though listen as I, cleft

between the Earth and Heavens, hesitate

to burn away these veils and, ahead,

wherein Thou art, perceive, with pore and vein,

my Beloved, the Essence, that Black Thread

Who ties together halted waterways

with steep-faced, rising mountain-tops aflame,

kindled by Thee, O! Glory of the grave,

Whose fresh palms kept and cradled my remains

until, in sprouts of gold, I struck insight,

and, gaping, bright with shame, and gasping praise,

I realized that Thou dost yet survive

in places desolated, drained, deprived

of love or light, filled with the hollow cries

of those languishing—lost, destroyed by lies—

in the abyss of mortifying pain:

For here, as well, Thou dwelleth; yea, for I,

though dying, lost, my Spirit nearly slain,

was brought to bloom, resolved by Thee again.

Thus do I long from body to away

into the Realm of Beauty in Thy reign;

to gaze in rapture, chant aloud what’s said

upon Thy tablets, and, lost in Thy Ways,

with Soul unbridled, at long last be led

into Thy garden, lain upon Thy bed.